


splinter the night (draw these borderlines between us)

by xtwilightzx (blackidyll)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Civil War, Historical, M/M, Nation names, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/xtwilightzx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Grow up, America!" England hisses. "This is what we do. We form and break alliances on the strength and benefit to our people, and if it favours me to support the Confederacy, I most certainly will." </p><p>"Don't." America's hands are balled into fists, his knuckles white. </p><p>England arches an eyebrow. "Don't?" he echoes mockingly. </p><p>America's jaw works, but when he speaks his words are steady. If he controlled his body language, England might even be convinced. "You could favor me. Or hell, even just stay out of it! The Confederacy isn't anything—there's nothing to mediate because they're supposed to be <i>me</i>—" </p><p>England laughs in his face. Then, pivoting neatly on his boots, he strides out of the room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	splinter the night (draw these borderlines between us)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jedishampoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/gifts).



> Written for [jedishampoo](http://jedishampoo.livejournal.com) for the 2013 [usxuk](http://usxuk.livejournal.com) Secret Santa exchange, to the following prompt: 
> 
> "Something with America and England around the time of the civil war. Until the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation, it was possible that the UK may have assisted the Confederacy even further; obviously this caused some friction between America and England and how might that have manifested itself?"
> 
> \---
> 
> I was not very knowledgeable in the American Civil War before writing this fic, and I didn't have much time to do all the research I would have liked, so please please please forgive any discrepancies, and I hope I did the characters and the time period justice. Do ping me if you see any gross inaccuracies - that would be very helpful! 
> 
> Fic title comes from Vienna Teng's "Antebellum".

Officially, England and a number of his diplomats are there as neutral – but interested – observers. Interested, because trade is still the official currency of the world—

(War is so crude in the eyes of many. So base and yet oddly instinctive in the veins of men, for how often they flare up at the barest provocation).

—and now that most of the known realm has been claimed in some form by the tight circle of colonial powers, trade is still the best way for England to explore the great vast earth. He cannot be everywhere at once, but commerce brings artefacts far and wide directly home to him. 

Officially, England is here because even his government acknowledges that his former colony's election is pivotal, potentially history-writing, and it's always polite to send greetings to the man who would set the United States' course for the foreseeable future. And amongst those who know, England is quite literally the representative of the United Kingdom, and who else is better suited to stamping a lingering impression of the British Empire on America's incoming administration?

(He is a nation. The potential for violence is there, in the precarious pre-election equilibrium; the scales will tip when the next president is announced. And because he is a nation, England has the best chance of surviving when violence breaks out. Clairvoyance has never been one of his skills, but his long life grants him the gift of experience, of insight—)

\---

—Abraham Lincoln is elected president of the United States, and before his inauguration, seven Southern states with cotton-based economies declared their secession.

They call themselves the new Confederate States of America, and fire upon Union troops at Fort Sumter: the beginning of America's civil war.

 

 

 

It is, on the surface, an informal dinner, hosted by American governmental representatives for the various foreign diplomats in the area. It is in hushed conversations and information traded in shaded corners that set the stage for diplomacy, however, and the British contingent is out in force tonight. England is sure no one else here is highly ranked enough to know who he truly is – he’s simply another representative in crowds’ eyes, here under the umbrella invitation extended to his diplomatic mission – and if he’s forced to attend, his anonymity at least provides the best camouflage.  

He catches sight of America long before the other sees him, but he knows exactly when America notices him because something heavy and likely expensive smashes to the ground, and there’s a hurried apology before footsteps hurry England’s way.

“Hello, America,” England cuts America off. They are in a room of foreign representatives, and while there is a time and place for outbursts this is not one of them. “Care not to make a complete fool of yourself by causing a scene?”

America’s expression goes a shade darker, his shoulders stiffening with resentment. England really shouldn’t nettle America so, but it’s either strike first or suffer the shock of hurt, sorrow and fury that inevitably arises whenever England first sets eyes on America, and so England takes the offensive, every time.      

“Don’t even think it,” America says, eyes sparking with irritation. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, just _don’t_.”

England’s eyes narrow and he snares America’s collar, dragging him into a corner in the seconds before America throws him off. England slaps a hand against America’s back instead, raising his voice to say “that’s enough drink for one night, lad,” playacting a concerned friend; America’s face flushes with anger, completing the deception.

“I told you not to make a scene,” England warns him under his breathe, keeping his smile politely bland – an encouragement for any would-be conversationalist oblivious enough not to sense the tension to seek dialogue elsewhere – and takes a step away to fix his cuffs.

He’s dressed in clean cotton today, in the manner of a civilian - no insignias, no weapons, with only his leather gloves declaring him anything out of the ordinary. It’s the plain cotton that’s riled America up entirely, when at events like these England would normally be in bespoke linen shirts and fitted coats, perfectly put together.

America presses into his personal space, using the only tactic available to him to intimidate. “And I told all of you to go bother some other nation, and yet you’re here. What do—”

England drawls over America’s increasingly loud speech, “Yes, yes, we heard you the first time, and the good Mr. Adams has only been parroting the statement at my government every week since. You're deafening as always.”

“I’m not joking, England,” America hisses. “Stay out of it. I _will_ go to war with you if you officially recognize the Confederacy.”

They are to be on their best behaviour, so England picks his words with the care an archer affords his quiver, tests them for balance and weight and maximum, lethal efficiency.

"For a nation—" and England still can't stop the slight sneer in his voice "—so bent on morality, you do love to threaten war on anyone who even thinks to disagree with you. How _dictatorial_."

America rears back like he's been slapped. England smiles vindictively; he hadn’t liked all the times America had shouted at England to _stop being such a dictator_ , back before two wars and the subsequent treaties forced them to be civilized to each other.

"All the best with your little conflict, then,” England says, voice heavy with sarcasm. “I have more urgent matters to attend to on the continent."

“What are you doing here if you’ve got such ‘important business’ elsewhere?” America asks, voice mocking, and doubly infuriating coming from someone England had once watched over. But over America’s shoulder England can see Lyons – as his foreign minister to the United States the man undoubtedly knows who America is – heading straight for them, a ripple in the crowd signifying one of America’s officials doing the same. They appear quite ready to drag their respective nations away from what is becoming an increasingly noticeable argument, and England has more dignity than to suffer that.

England takes a step back, stares America straight in the eye and says, “Rest assured, America, nothing pleases me more than the fact that I’m leaving tomorrow.” He turns immediately, military crisp, to meet Lyons, not bothering to look over his shoulder at America’s reaction.

The sharp glare he can feel boring into his back tells England plenty, as it is.

 

 

 

“I bet you’re feeling really smug right now.”

England doesn’t answer for long minutes, watching the street below. It takes a moment for him to spot the runner when the lad finally shows up, but the hand signal is unmistakable; Mason and Slidell are aboard the _HMS Rinaldo_ , and England’s crew will escort them to a safe port and arrange the transport that will take them across the Atlantic to his home.

Satisfied, England draws the curtains, and turns to an increasingly cagey America, the sole other person in the room.

“No, it’s been an irksome affair,” England says, and flexes his fingers, trying to coax the tense stiffness from them. There is restless electricity still coursing under his skin from the mobilization of his troops, to Canada and in the Atlantic; safeguards against any threat of war. “What a perfect mess you’ve made of it.”

America, for once, doesn’t bite back with a retort. The current events have taken a toll on them both; England has his sabre strapped to one hip, his empty holster the only concession he made to the demand he disarm, and America definitely has arms hidden about his body. It’s less about the threat and more of a statement on their stances with each other—America firmly convinced of his right to use belligerent force against any threat of the Confederacy seeking recognition, even against England, and England quite ready to defend his rights, his ships and his people under international law, especially against America.

“My captain had every right,” America says, watching England from across a wide oaken writing desk, a strategically placed piece of furniture serving both to draw a boundary line – England on one side, America on the other – and to serve as a physical buffer between them. “Those men planned to turn you and France to their cause and against me. That’s treason. I was well within my rights to collect and remove them from the _Trent._ ”

England slides careful fingers across the grip of his sabre, doesn’t care that America’s gaze drops to track the movement. “No, America, you were not. I don’t care if those two men are diplomats, stowaways or immigrants. You’re either at war with your rebellious little states, or you are not. And since you insist you are not, you hardly have the right or the legal status as a belligerent party to search _my_ ships for envoys of a government you don’t acknowledge.”

He strides right up to the desk, pins America with a flat stare. “Why are you still arguing this? Your own president ordered Mason and Slidell’s release. At least your administration is capable of admitting their mistakes.”

American leans over the desk in turn, stares back with baleful intensity. “So what, you’re the defender of lost envoys all of a sudden? I know that queen whats-her-name of yours—“ England bristles at the slight against Her Majesty “—formally declared your neutrality, so what the hell are you doing even doing siding with the Confederacy.”

“I can always change my mind.”

“No you can’t,” America says, as if it is just as easy as that. Three words, to cage the world’s greatest empire.

“Why not?” England asks somewhat indulgently, although his patience wears thin.

America slams a hand into the heavy desk; the old wood splinters with a loud crack, and when America lifts his fist away a thin fissure now mars the surface. “You just can’t!”

"Grow up, America!" England hisses. "This is what we do. We form and break alliances on the strength and benefit to our people, and if it favours me to support the Confederacy, I most certainly will."

"Don't." America's hands are balled into fists, his knuckles white.

England arches an eyebrow. "Don't?" he echoes mockingly.

America's jaw works, but when he speaks his words are steady. If he controlled his body language, England might even be convinced. "You could favor me. Or hell, even just stay out of it! The Confederacy isn't anything—there's nothing to mediate because they're supposed to be _me_ —"

England laughs in his face. Then, pivoting neatly on his boots, he strides out of the room.

America reacts near instantaneously, the door flying open again before it's had the chance to slam shut.

"England!"

Once, that name on America’s lips would have made England pause, take note, pay attention. But now England strides forward, boots thudding against the floor in steady staccato beats, makes America chase _him_ for once – and America does, must have lost all perspective in that one heated moment, because England is certain the other nation would rather jump into a raging river than to show such sentimentality.

He’d done it before, after all, in the early years of rebellion, preferring to brave white water rapids than to let England corner him, to either coax or threaten him back into his proper place.

The memory of it throws England for a second, his steps faltering, and he spins, forces America, who had kept up determinedly, to skid to a halt.

His voice comes out chillingly calm. “Who do you think I am?”  

America stares at him for a long moment, his face twisting up in bewilderment. “Did you hit your head or something because you sound cra—”

England cuts him off before he gives in to the temptation of violence. “You want me—to not interfere. To not speak to Confederate representatives when they seek an audience with my government. You’ve just barely managed to escape an international gaffe borne from the arrogance of thinking you could attack one of my ships with impunity, and you think you can demand anything of me right now?”

America’s expression twists further, and he opens his mouth instinctively to retort, to fight back—and comes up with nothing immediately, a fact that makes the younger nation more flustered than ever.

It's perfectly ironic, really, that for all ways America had deliberately shattered each and every tie between them that America now has to coexist with him, to either threaten or curry England’s favour.

_Welcome to the reality of being an independent nation, America._

"No," England says with a smile, teeth bared. "I am the British Empire, and _I refuse_." 

He must still be more than a little mad, that the flicker of devastation followed by utter fury – _control, America, honestly, still wearing your heart on your sleeves?_ – on America's face brings England only savage satisfaction, cold and bitter.

\---

It takes his diplomats two days to untangle that particular knot, and no one dares to glare at England, but he hears their tense mutterings, the worried glances—they're still too close to the Trent Affair to take things lightly.

Fortunately, America had not gone bleating to his entire congress about what England said. No, he'd apparently spilled it to Lincoln, who rather tactfully sent a discreet message to England’s inn – rather than to his diplomatic mission – whose contents more or less boils down to “did you imply that you’ll throw your support behind the Confederacy or is this all a misunderstanding between my nation and yours?” 

(England would pay dearly to know just how the man keeps abreast of all his information networks in the midst of a civil war, but decides not to seek alternate accommodations; he has greater matters to deal with).

Honestly, how many times has he said it? The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland is _officially neutral_. There’s enough of a divide between what his leaders want and who the British public support without England throwing his gloves onto either side of the arena.

England won’t mix his personal feelings with politics again; he’s learnt his lesson.

 

 

 

 _England isn't terribly surprised to find France in his sitting room_ – _the other nation always finds slippery ways of appearing where he is least welcome. He tips his head in England's direction, a wine glass dangling from one hand, and gestures with regal exuberance for England to join him on the brocade sitting chair._

 _Ignoring the posturing with the ease of habit, England plucks the wine glass from France's hand and takes a sip himself. Bubbles pop on his tongue – champagne, how_ French _– and even as England glances to his drinks cabinet he notes that France hasn't strayed from the chair, hasn't snooped like England half-expects him to._

_Pity. He wouldn't mind if France triggers the wards he layered around his work desk and his private rooms._

_"You know, I have a new Emperor."_

_The words, uttered in a flippant, sing-songy voice, are calibrated for maximum annoyance, and England scoffs, drawing back to hitch his hip against the desk. The thrum of magic welcomes him back into their protective embrace, the small pistol a reassuring weight at the small of his back, but it is the solid line of his sabre that lets him smirk, utterly at ease._

_He has never lost a sword fight against France._

_"He's not that new."_

_"He certainly is_ — _to me," France says. "Some of us must make do with humans when there is such a scarcity of upstart young nations to be obsessed with."_

_The wine glass creaks in England's gloved hand. "I am busy," he says in his most dispassionate voice, turning towards the window._

_"Yes_ — _busy_ playing _." France never dips out of that aggravating cadence, flirtation thick on his words, but his eyes in the reflection of the window are dark, predatory. "Careful,_ petit frère _, lest you forget what's most important."_

_Oh, England knows what's important. His empire spans the globe and there are sovereign powers aplenty who would love to whittle his territory down, claim what's left. He also knows why France has an eye on America's civil war, why a bite of Mexico might seem appealing during this turbulent time._

_"Likewise, France," England says. "Likewise."_

 

 

 

There was a time when the spirits of this land deigned to speak to him. England could not begin to control them – like their nation, they are too wild and free-spirited to be reined in by another's hand – but spiritual magic calls to like, and England carries enough latent power within his veins that he could coax the gold-eyed coyotes and the will-o’-the-wisps on their way.

Now, without the recognition offered by his guardianship over America, they ghost his steps, attention heavy on England’s back, both attracted and kept at bay by his otherness. He keeps his hands carefully away from his weapons, and although they will not speak to him, England hopes that they’ll at least consider warning him before he walks around a tree trunk and right into a Confederate encampment.  

America’s mystic creatures are quite capable of blocking his senses long enough for a jumpy soldier to attack.

Although they seem in the mood for mischief this time around.

It’s a miracle England doesn’t end up shooting America, that America doesn’t slam him right through a tree. Some long dormant instinct holds England’s trigger finger just long enough for him to register windblown blonde hair, the distinctive blue eyes, and he jerks his pistol away, the barrel sweeping America’s bangs from his face. 

America doesn’t even flinch. "What. The hell. Are you doing here."

England eyes him, feeling oddly off-kilter. They hadn’t parted on the best terms the last time, and no matter what America thinks of him (or no longer thinks of him), England is still the elder, the wiser. He’s alone and standing on American soil, secession or not, and it would be the height of stupidity to provoke the other nation now.

“Scratch that – _how_ the hell did you get here?”

Suspicion is thick on America’s voice, and England holsters his pistol, straightens his spine.  

"Blockade runners. Completely and entirely legal."

"They sure as hell are _not_ legal. And blockade runners go to Mexico," America says, eyes glinting.

“And if your navy managed to catch more than one in five of my transport ships, I might actually believe in your ability to enforce that so-called law internationally.”

England manages to keep the smirk off his face but some smugness must seep through, because America’s face goes flushed with anger, eyes narrowing.

“You’re arming them,” he says. “The blockade is there to stop that, and yet you give them muskets, leather goods, hospital stores, and it’s just prolonging the war—”

“I give you muskets too,” England points out, “although your tariffs make trade with you rather less desirable than with the Confederacy.” He lets the five syllables roll out smoothly on his tongue, putting the slightest emphasis on the name, and America flinches.

The sight doesn’t bring England nearly as much satisfaction as he thought it might.

“And what are you doing here?” he asks instead, neatly diverting the conversation, and this time America doesn’t bristle; he stares into the depths of the forest for a long moment before drawing his gaze back to England.

“This is still my land.”

England lets out a huff of derision. “Translation: one of your leaders thought it would be a good idea to send you into Confederate territory as a spy. Or—” he lets his gaze sweep across America’s nondescript clothing, the supplies pack and the vague shape of a rifle strapped to his back, well wrapped in oil cloth and hardly easily drawn for immediate action. “—did you send yourself?”

The colour goes higher on America’s cheeks; one hand balls involuntarily into a fist, nails likely biting into vulnerable skin. “They’re _mine_ ,” America says, and there is desperate, steadfast conviction in his voice. “They’re mine too. And,” his voice turns accusatory, “crazily you don’t protest at all when I seize your ships and cargo when you _try_ to get around the blockade, so sorry if I’m kind of confused which side you’re on. Make up your damn mind, England.”

“I’m neutral,” England says. “And that means being on no one’s side but my own.”

The anger is still there, in every line of America’s body. He reaches up and scrubs one hand defiantly through his hair, and the movement pulls the collar of his shirt away, reveals bandages swathing his collarbones and his throat, still tucked in tightly – newly changed – and speckled with faint scarlet – fresh blood seeping through. 

England’s thoughts go very still and very quiet; he focuses on keeping his expression bland, his body language unaffected. Distantly, he finds himself wondering whether America’s civil war manifests as angry gashes or messy bullet wounds: both are probable, and both kinds hurt, tremendously.  

“Why are you _here_?” America is restless now, limiting himself to shifting on his feet because several wars have finally taught him that unnecessary movement makes him an easier target. Or—like he’s trying to hold himself as still as possible, as to not jar his wounds.

Before England knows what he’s doing, he’s folding America’s collar back into place, hiding the injuries – out of sight, tucked safely away. England’s hands are still covered by gloves but he feels America go still, a single sharp exhalation pressing against his fingers, and he draws back immediately, clasps his hands together behind his back so America doesn’t read anything from the way they are oddly trembling, utterly out of England’s control.

He hadn’t noticed. He’d lived through his own civil war, and yet he hadn’t noticed.

“I’m here because some of my men are here, fighting on either sides of your war,” England says softly, and doesn’t mention the rest: that he’s been looking for signs of a possible Confederacy. The nature of nations is nebulous even to them – there’s hardly a need for two Italies, and yet there they are, now fighting their way to reunification. And the young upstart who calls himself Germany bears a remarkable resemblance to the Holy Roman Empire; England remembers enough of the pint-sized nation, having wished to plant his musket into the blonde’s back far too many times during—

But England isn’t thinking of that now, and he’s lost the drive to search for a Confederate nation—

“Oh,” is all the reaction America gives; he stares at England, eyes wide, pupils nearly dominating the blue of them.  

—and he needs get away from America this very instant.

“I’m leaving.” It’s an utterly pointless statement; England’s lost his eloquence, and he itches suddenly for a pipe. Tobacco is a vice he rarely partakes of, a remnant of long dank days aboard a ship when crammed quarters and the reek of tightly packed bodies begin to take their toll. The pipe occupied his hand when it would rather wield a sabre or a gun; now he lets himself wrap his hands firmly around his pistol, keeps it ready but aimed low in guard position.

America – _the_ _crazy fool_ – actually reaches out and grabs for it. “Yeah – no.”

Growling, England ducks away. “I’m hardly going to shoot you, America!” He sidesteps nimbly out of America’s range, and the next words slip out in a mix of bitterness and resignation. “I seem to be fatally incapable of doing so, as you well know.”

America gives no indication of hearing anything England’s just said; he just shrugs his pack into a more comfortable position, still eyeing the pistol with a frown. “Put it away.”

“And risk one of your charming Confederates coming under my guard in the second it takes to draw,” England retorts, drawing ire around him like a protective cloak. “Thank you, but no.”

“Whatever,” America says warily. “Come on, I can kind of feel where large groups of them are, anyway.” A beat goes by, during which England just stares. “I’m not letting you off on your own. It’s not happening.” 

America’s jaw is set, and England is abruptly tired, tired of witnessing America’s young righteousness and tired from being away from his own territories. The sooner he capitulates, the sooner he can leave, away from America and into the familiar seas.

England closes his eyes for one brief second, and holsters his pistol in that moment of blindness.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine.”

 

 

 

It’s the silence that cues England in.

There is nothing else beyond the ever present background sounds of the ocean, the creaking beams of wood, the distant voices of the crew refuelling the ship; England recognizes and knows it well – it is the silence of someone who is trying too hard not to be caught.

He ducks his head into the ocean breeze, breathes in the salty tang of the port, and lets his spine relax just a fraction – seemingly off-guard.

"What are you doing?"

England doesn’t lift his gaze. Instead, he rucks up one rolled up sleeve further up his arm and says to the hull of his ship, "You have eyes. Use them."

America’s learned to be stealthy. He has always drawn the eye with his handsome looks, his infectious laughter, the brightness of his spirit; he keeps that banked now. Even his hand on England’s upper arm is restrained, no longer the rough grab of a boy but a calculated move that pulls England around, makes England face him.

Something dark in England rears its head at being manhandled, and he snaps one hand up, knocking America’s arm away.

“Don’t,” he says, quietly, silkily, “do that again.”

America’s eyes, however, match him emotion for emotion.

“Why are you building commerce raiders?”

“I don’t see any naval cruisers here, do you? Rather a lack of cannons and munitions—”

“ _CSS Alabama_ ,” America breaks in, voice like cracking ice. “Built by John Laird Sons and Company, a British shipyard, outfitted with British machinery and parts, and manned by a crew of mainly British seamen. All of this, for the _Confederacy_.” He says the name like a curse, England’s kind, the magical kind, fast and explosive, and like the inexperienced he is breathlessly quiet after.  “This is worse than running the blockades.”

Silence can be a weapon, even when not intended as one, and America grows more and more agitated the longer England lets it drag out, refusing to engage until he can sort out how best to handle this situation. 

For once, England’s the dishevelled one, coat and necktie and other fashionables discarded in his cabin, sleeves rolled up and shirt sweat-soaked and his hair riotously ruffled by the wind. There’s nowhere else England feels wildest than upon one of his ships, and if he can’t sail her he’s willing to drop all appearances of gentility to care for her, down to hauling and coiling the mooring ropes that guided her to the dock.

England doesn’t let his guard down often, and didn’t even intend to set foot on America’s shores. He has been with the Royal Navy for weeks now, patrolling European seas and keeping a watchful eye on the French and Russian fleets. Then he’d received word of the _Enrica_ , soon to be recommissioned and outfitted as the offensive cruiser _CSS Alabama_ at Terceira Island, and he transferred off onto a commercial ship to take him as far out of Portuguese waters as possible. That ship was enroute to America, and for some inexplicable reason England didn’t have the heart to divert them.

He thought he was safe, at least, on the docks reserved for foreign ships where America’s people rarely venture without due cause, but it’s very like America to carelessly knock down all England’s expectations without even trying.

"I gave you ships once," England says.

America’s answer would be a shout if he wasn’t half speechless with emotion. “That’s hardly the same thing!”

“On the contrary.” England lifts his chin, stares America down. “By your own word, no country is to acknowledge the Confederacy under threat of war. If the Confederacy does not officially exist, then I am simply trading with _you_. They _are_ your people, are they not?" He reaches out with a leather-gloved hand to caress the wind-worn hull of his ship. "This is me, not acknowledging anyone."

America’s eyes are bright with frustration, disappointment, anger at himself. “It’s not the same,” he says, tone saturated with the unsaid, “and you know it.”

England draws his hand back to his side, tilting his head to study America as if the changed angle might give him further insight into the younger nation’s head. Lincoln’s rhetoric is clear – the Confederates are considered rebels, and he sends his troops into war to preserve the Union, refusing any negotiations because the Confederacy cannot be considered a legitimate government. And while America clearly considers himself on the Union side of the war, he sticks steadfast to the claim that all Americans are still his, and says nothing of rebellions.

England wonders whether America is aware of his own choice of words, and whether he understands a little better what England felt nearly a century ago.

Soaring somewhere above them, a lone gull calls, raucous. America doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to care about anything beyond the quay they stand on. "Why are you doing this? I see you and France circling my war like—like vultures, biding your time, always sitting on the threat of interference – _why?”_

"For goodness’ sake." The exasperation that bubbles up in England's chest is painful in its familiarity—America's moments of wide-eyed idealism are always destined to be crushed in one way or another, and while the younger nation's innocence had once been endearing, England now has little desire to shield America from the realities of the world.

Not that America would let him. He plows right into them of his own volition. 

"Surely something of the way the world operates must have entered that thick skull of yours by now,” England continues, and America’s jaw goes tight; he’s clenching his teeth hard. “Friends, allies, it all appears very nicely on paper, but at our very core we nations must care for our own, even at the expense of these… friends.”

He resists the urge to touch his left arm, which one of his siblings had broken in three places during one of their many scrambles for power and territory a long, long time ago. The Middle Ages had been a cesspool of vicious acts committed in the name of self-interest.

“I know that,” America bites out.

“Do you? The ships like the _Alabama_ are purely commercial transactions between the Confederacy and civilian shipbuilders. My government does not sanction them. But neither will I fault my people for profiting from a fair business opportunity.”

America shoves at him, swift and sudden, and England is caught off-guard enough that America backs him against the side of the ship, hands a firm weight against England’s shoulders. He takes a moment to catch his breath, lifting his head slowly, and England might be weaponless but he’s fast, cunning, experienced, violence already singing under his skin—

"England,” America says, close enough that his breath feathers across England’s cheek, and England goes very still; it’s the first time in a very long time since he’s heard America speak his name that way, void of anger, accusation or annoyance. More often than not, America prefers to avoid speaking his name altogether.

He shrugs America’s grip on his shoulders off roughly, his weight still shifted onto the balls of his feet. America barely moves, continues to hover close, not quite managing to loom but succeeding in triggering every one of England's defensive instincts. But England makes a conscious decision to stay put, and waits.

“If anything—” and they both ignore the fact that it is almost certainly a _when_ , not an _if_ “—anything at all happens to my people because of these ships, I'll hold you personally accountable."

They’re standing too close to comfortably meet each other’s eyes, the proximity turning the air between them unbearably intimate. England flicks his gaze down, lets it catch on America’s clothing. This time, his shirt is buttoned all the way up to his throat.

England can still knock America flat on his back, but instead he only murmurs, "Don't you always?"

 

 

 

_“…that on the first day of January, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, all persons held as slaves within any State or designated part of a State, the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the United States, shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free; and the Executive Government of the United States, including the military and naval authority thereof, will recognize and maintain the freedom of such persons, and will do no act or acts to repress such persons, or any of them, in any efforts they may make for their actual freedom…”_

\---

Clever, clever America. Or lucky America, to have such a gifted leader and tactician in Lincoln at his side.

"Congratulations."

America's head snaps up.

England slips gracefully into the tiny alcove overlooking ballroom below. He's in leather and linen today, in the style of British merchants, and he makes America's shadow guards shift uneasily, even though an assassin would surely be more discreet, and their nation even in his injured state is more than capable of defending himself.

England levels an even look at them regardless, openly acknowledges them – _I see you, and I don’t mind you knowing that I’ve seen you_ – which makes them stiffen in alarm until America flicks a silent, polite hand gesture at them. They stand down, and England turns his back on them, joins America in the shadows at the edge of the balcony.

“An honour guard. Really.”

“I keep trying to see what’s going on in the other states,” America mutters mulishly. “Everyone else thinks it’s safer for me to stay put for now.”

There are still the fleeting hints of surprise on America's face, in the corners of his eyes, in the way his mouth tucks down unconsciously, and although he keeps his face tipped towards the ballroom vista below them his gaze keeps flicking back to England.

England sets a hand on the rail guard, looks down into the ballroom himself. America had been down there himself just an hour prior, bold and bright and free, and how eyes had followed him, his people instinctively rallying behind him whether or not they know who he is.

“They always worry so,” England murmurs in turn, “when it is we who will always do our utmost for them.”

He pauses—America’s shoulders are subtly tense, still jumpy from England’s first comment, like he expects a volley of vitriol to follow. England huffs out a quiet breath of unwilling amusement; trust America not to differentiate between a genuine compliment and a sarcastic one. He keeps his voice low, clandestine. “It was a strategic move. And many applaud you for this step towards equality.” 

Officially, the war still rages. But Lincoln’s announcement – the Emancipation Proclamation – shifts the playing field entirely. The change in America’s people, in the cause they now fight for, is evident. And more relevantly for England—his government had watched the proceedings carefully, and when there was no evidence of another conflict, a racial conflict, it became certain.

England is neutral and always has been, but there is now no possibility that his government would ever recognize or openly support the Confederacy.

“I told you,” America says quietly, his posture relaxing fractionally. “They’re all mine.”

“So they are,” England agrees.

America’s eyes dart up again at that, and this time England catches his gaze, doesn’t let him look away.

There is no Confederate nation. There is only America, and the odds are heavy on the likelihood that America will stay whole.

England is irrationally, fiercely proud of America for accomplishing this.

“I’m sure you suspect this already, but you needn’t worry about interference from Europe now.” England’s mouth quirks with a wry smile, lopsided. America stares at him, mouth half-open as if he’s trying to respond without knowing what he wants to say, and England’s smile goes fractionally amused before he breaks their gaze, satisfied that he’s made his point. 

He doesn’t let himself touch America; the nations, especially the colonial powers, prefer to keep their distance from each other, but America had been affectionate as a child and England can admit it now—he misses it. It is safer and saner to keep his distance, however, so he only gives America a nod in farewell, and turns to leave.

"Is it always going to be like this?"

The question is abrupt, like it had burst out of America without his control, and the sound of it rings in the broken silence. Mortification floods America’s face before he forces blank calmness into his expression, chin lifting up defiantly.

He could mean a number of things; England could easily interpret the question a dozen ways. But England knows what America is really asking, that this civil war represents a paradigm shift for the younger nation, where wars are not won simply on the strength and proficiency of individual men or in the righteousness of their cause but are fought in the tangled webs of politics, influenced by the nebulous interferences of outside powers.

And for that fighting to come from his own people, not a foreign invasion but a bitter rejection haemorrhaging from within—

"Had you always wanted to secede from me?"

England isn't sure which of them is more surprised by the question. His throat clicks when he swallows, mouth suddenly dry. America’s eyes are large in the dark, and the silence between them is heavy with the unsaid, like the damp Virginian air the day England aimed his musket at America's face and couldn't, _could not_ take the shot. 

America's face contorts, like he's forcing himself to speak through a throatful of gunpowder and smoke, but his voice when the answer finally comes out is low, barely audible, and very, very honest.

"No."

They stand there with the weight of memories on their shoulders, America with terrible gashes still wrapped under layers of bandages, and England standing tall, pristine, his heart stinging like vinegar poured over old wounds. The other nation stares at him with something stricken in his blue, blue eyes, but England knows better – there is steel in America's spine, a strength of will behind the bleakness that belies his every action.

Everything changes. Allies can claim sudden neutrality, only to throw their support elsewhere the next day. Colonies can pledge allegiance or declare secession. A people can tear their nation apart campaign by slow campaign. And sometimes—

Sometimes it comes full circle, with America watching him, no longer full of wonder, no longer innocently naive, but still _there_.

"Then that's your answer," England says, and leaves. 

**Author's Note:**

> \- The Union threatened war if any country officially recognized the existence of the Confederate States of America. The Confederacy believed in the power of "King Cotton" (that cotton was incredibly necessary as an import) and that Europe would throw its support behind them. In truth, support in Britain was divided - sympathy with the North against slavery, and support for the South because they fought for the right of self-government. British neutrality greatly irritated both sides since each believed they deserved support and thought it galling that Britain didn't support _them_. 
> 
> \- On November 8, 1861, Captain Wilkes and his crew intercepted the British mail steamer _RMS Trent _, capturing and removing two Confederate envoys, James Mason and John Slidell, who were en route to the UK and France to gain diplomatic recognition and support for the Confederacy. The British were outraged at this, while the US considered the _Trent___ taking the envoys on board as Britain's possible way of recognizing the Confederacy. Britain demanded an apology and the men's release; the threat of war heightened, Britain even taking steps to strengthen their military presence in Canada and at sea, until Lincoln defused the situation by releasing the two men. Although the envoys completed the journey, Britain never did recognize the Confederacy.
> 
> \- The British and the French didn't enter the war as nations, but a few British individuals served, on either sides of the conflict. France stayed neutral mainly because it wanted to seize Mexico (beginning in 1862), and didn't want to provoke the Union into interfering. France's "new" emperor was Napolean III.
> 
> \- America does hold England "personally accountable". In 1872, after much dispute, the British paid the United States $15.5 million for the damages caused by the _CSS Alabama_ and other British-built Confederate ships. 
> 
> \- The Emancipation Proclamation made the eradication of slavery an explicit Union war goal, and linked support for the Confederacy with the support of slavery. This declaration ensured that the United Kingdom, which abolished slavery in the early 1800s, and most of Europe would never officially recognize or support the Confederacy, as it would be interpreted as supporting slavery.  
>    
> \- Major events cited in this fic: [Fort Sumter](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Fort_Sumter) (April 1861), [The Trent Affair](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trent_Affair) (late 1861), [Britain and blockade runners](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blockade_runners_of_the_American_Civil_War) (throughout), the building of Confederate ships in British dockyards (see: [CSS Alabama](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CSS_Alabama), 1862 onward), and the [Emancipation Proclamation](http://www.archives.gov/exhibits/featured_documents/emancipation_proclamation/transcript.html) (January 1863).
> 
> \- I will shut up now ;v; . Thanks so much for reading!  
> 


End file.
